Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (45 page)

Although she'd
agreed to only the ride, Tarleton radiated confidence at obtaining the entire
package.
 
He lifted her hand to his lips
again before he bowed and took leave of her.
 
Waving to legionnaires in market, he rode off, bodyguards and foxhounds
following.
 
Without difficulty, she
envisioned him whisking mistresses from beneath the noses of complacent
noblemen in Parliament.

Hannah edged up
to her.
 
"A fine feast for the
eyes, isn't he?"

Flummoxed,
Helen realized she was fanning herself and stopped.
 
Then the bottom dropped out of her euphoria.
 
David had watched her make a fool of
herself.
 
She spun around, but he'd
turned his back on her to fulfill orders for the peddlers.
 
Well, what did she expect?

Not for the
world would she have inflicted such a blow on him.
 
She had no idea why he'd risked his life by coming to camp, but
by then she doubted he wanted to hear her explanations.
 
For certain, he mustn't linger.

She gripped
Hannah by the elbow and drew her away, separating them from the peddlers and
David by several merchants' stalls.
 
"Hannah, look at those three peddlers.
 
Do you see their assistant, that old man?"
 
The blonde nodded without recognition.
 
Helen wasn't certain how many times she'd
ever met David.
 
"Good.
 
I need you to take a message to him.
 
But you must deliver it to him without it
being obvious."

She purchased a
bottle of cider.
 
The merchant allowed
her use of his stationery and ink to jot a note to David:
Leave camp
immediately.
 
F and T will execute you
and your father
.
 
She sprinkled fine
sand to dry the ink, folded the paper, and gave it to Hannah.

From the
merchant's stall, she watched Hannah mosey over to the peddlers, poke around
the deer hides, display casual interest in a bolt of fabric and receive an
earful from the paunchy peddler about what a deal he'd strike for her, and,
without purchasing a thing, brush past David and palm him the note.
 
David slid it into a grimy haversack on his
shoulder as he handed a bag of herbs to the red-haired peddler.

On their return
to the campsite, Hannah remained quiet until they'd cleared most of the lower
camp.
 
Then she said, low, "The old
man I gave the note to wasn't old at all."

"Now,
Hannah —"

"Yes,
madam, I understand.
 
I see and hear
nothing unless you ask me to do so."

***

Jonathan
retired to his tent soon after supper and grew quiet, as did the Pearsons.
 
Helen stayed up past ten writing in her
journal.
 
With so much talk of how
backcountry militiamen couldn't be relied upon to support the king, Londoners
would be delighted to read of the perseverance of the king's provincial
soldiers.
 
When the ink had dried on her
entry, she closed the journal, blew out the lantern, and crawled into her cot.

Almost as soon
as she'd grown comfortable, grass rustled outside the tent, and a familiar
whisper floated in through the flaps.
 
"Helen, are you awake?
 
Let
me in.
 
We have to talk!"

She bolted up
and dangled her feet over the side of the cot, her heart stammering with
fear.
 
David, that fool, that utterly
crazy fool.
 
Why did he not comprehend
leave
camp immediately
?

Chapter Forty-Five

"DON'T
PULL THE beard," he whispered.
 
"I'm not sure what paste they used, but I may sacrifice a layer of
skin to remove it."

"You
stink," she whispered back, cheek pressed to his shoulder, arms wrapped
around him.

"Thank
you.
 
That's part of the disguise,
too."

Her stomach
flip-flopped in fear and fury.
 
Why
hadn't David listened to her?
 
She
dislodged herself from his embrace and guided him to the stool, where he sat
with a low groan.
 
A blanket wrapped
round her shoulders, she slouched upon her cot.
 
"Why are you here?"

"Exactly
what I might ask of you."

"Fairfax
and Tarleton plan to execute you and your father."

"Harrumph,
after what I've been through, what's an execution?
 
Zounds, Helen, you're following the British Legion — and posing
as Fairfax's sister!
 
I thought Enid had
lost her mind when she told me.
 
Thank
Badley and Prescott for finally making sense of it all."

Badley and
Prescott?
 
Enid?
 
Pieces connected in Helen's head.
 
"You didn't run away that night.
 
You hid and waited, and you returned to my
house on Second Street after I'd left town."

"And it's
a good thing I did so.
 
Otherwise, your
scummy publisher and his mastiff would have murdered Enid."
 
Helen stiffened on her cot.
 
"Relax.
 
She's unharmed.
 
Middle of
the night, they raided your study for Silas's will.
 
I ran them off with my fowler."

Of course the
whole black, bloody mess was about Silas's will.
 
She'd realized that for weeks.
 
"I'd a copy filed with my ledgers."

"They
weren't after that edition.
 
Isaiah
Hanley's widow had the
unaltered
version, which she's put in the care of
your attorney.
 
Ten years ago, Silas
brought Hanley a copy of his will and asked him to protect it.
 
Unfortunately for most parties involved, Mr.
Hanley had a stroke and was unable to communicate where he'd stashed the
will.
 
His widow found the will late
October, when she was preparing to sell the house."

"Badley
and Prescott must have heard rumors that she'd found the will.
 
Charles knew Silas's original will was much
different.
 
Hannah told me so.
 
He was a threat to Badley and
Prescott."

"'They'll
kill Madam if they find it,'" murmured David.

Anger surged
through Helen.
 
"Those
dogs
.
 
They hired Arthur Sims to silence Charles
and Widow Hanley's messenger.
 
They even
tried to kill Jonathan on the chance that he suspected something."

"And they
stole Silas's pistol to implicate you in Charles's murder.
 
Badley and Prescott will murder without
compunction to avoid being exposed for perjury.
 
It really is too bad they can only be hanged once apiece."

Helen felt
weary.
 
"I presume the original
will left me a more substantial dower, plus a tidy sum to Charles Landon."

"Ah.
 
So you do know."

"What did
Badley and Prescott do with the money?"

"An
excellent question.
 
No one knows.
 
Must have been something extraordinary for
them to kill to cover their tracks."

She shook her
head.
 
"What did they
confess?"
 
David cleared his
throat, as if uncomfortable.
 
"The
Committee of Safety
does
have them in custody?"

"Not
exactly.
 
The Committee seized their
properties.
 
Badley escaped on a ship to
some relative's estate in the Caribbean."

"Bah.
 
He can be fetched back for trial.
 
Where's Prescott?"

"Last
reported headed for the North Carolina backcountry."
 
He cut off her hard sigh of incredulity.
 
"See here, you took this assignment
because you needed money.
 
Badley lured
you out here in the wilderness and hoped you'd get killed, but it's over now.
 
In Wilmington, the properties of Badley and
Prescott will provide you with a comfortable dower the rest of your life.

"Prescott
is running loose in the hinterland.
 
He
wants to kill you.
 
You're asking to die
anyway by following the Legion.
 
Two
rebel armies are ready to stomp into pulp anyone wearing a green or red uniform
in South Carolina.
 
And you're posing as
Fairfax's sister!
 
For Christ's sake,
that's insane!
 
For no rational reason
should you still be here."

In the
darkness, she gazed at him a few seconds and processed the reason of his
case.
 
"I'm here because there are
stories of courageous people that need to be told."

"What are
you talking about?"

"The women
and children who follow the army, for example."

He groaned
again.
 
"That story will never
sell.
 
No one cares about them.
 
Don't you understand?
 
The curtain closed on the final act of
Badley and Prescott's play.
 
There's no
assignment from London, no publisher for whatever story you develop."

A geyser of
irritation spouted in her chest.
 
"You don't know that!"

"Helen, be
realistic.
 
You're stuck here because
Badley's advance ran out."
 
Bitterness wrapped his whisper.
 
"Faced with selling yourself because you cannot leave.
 
It's not worth becoming Banastre Tarleton's
mistress.
 
Let me help you.
 
I can get you out!"

He could get
her out?
 
Taken aback, she stared at the
outline of his form.
 
Logic clamored
within her, urging her to listen to him.
 
Did she need to stay?
 
Surely
she'd collected enough information about Tarleton by then to create a feature
that would dazzle any Loyalist or Crown publisher.
 
David was correct: the British Legion was a more dangerous
regiment to be following than a regular regiment.
 
Furthermore, something nefarious and clandestine was going on
beneath the surface with Neville, Treadaway, and the mysterious Lieutenant
Stoddard, thus increasing the hazard of her circumstances.
 
One of those rebel generals posturing about
to the north was bound to direct aggression upon the Legion soon.
 
Winter was upon them all.
 
Was she so very certain that people cared to
hear about the courage of camp women and children?
 
"Get me out — how?"

"Early on
the morrow, the peddlers I'm traveling with will leave camp with a rolled
rug.
 
We'll hide you inside it."

The logistics
felt wrong, and the absurdity of the image claimed her.
 
Hadn't Cleopatra performed that stunt to
gain an audience with Julius Caesar?
 
Ice washed over her when she envisioned a legionnaire ramming a bayonet
into the rolled rug for a routine inspection.
 
"How did you convince peddlers to engage in such a risky
operation?"

"Money.
 
And I know the three of them from last
summer."

Three peddlers
and David as her bodyguard.
 
She
pictured the men who'd sold their wares in market and without difficulty
imagined them scampering away from altercations, regardless of how much David
had paid them.
 
In a low voice, she said,
"What about the Pearsons?
 
They
came with me as my attendants."

Obstinacy
coated David's tone.
 
"We haven't
made provision for them."

"And
Jonathan Quill?"

"The
Professor will have to find his own way out."

In the
darkness, for the first time, she recognized undertones that David's carefree
expressions and postures had masked for eleven years.
 
He was jealous of Jonathan, envious of the intimacy the two
shared in their imaginations, a unity forged during an Atlantic crossing.
 
David knew that no matter how long he
remained her lover, no matter how often their bodies coupled, he would never,
ever touch the core of her imagination as Jonathan did.

In horror and
betrayal, she covered her mouth with her hands.
 
David was willing to leave his rival behind, consign him to
death.
 
Death
was
what the
Pearsons and Jonathan would receive if she sneaked from camp — but not before
they'd each been tortured.

Had Fairfax,
who'd anticipated David's visit, also anticipated her attempt at just such an
absurd, harebrained escape as David proposed?
 
She, David, and three peddlers couldn't help but leave a trail easy to
follow.
 
Fairfax would hunt them down,
drag them back to camp — just as Octavius Caesar might have hauled a chained
Cleopatra and her servants through the streets of Rome — and torture them.
 
Hairs stood out along the back of Helen's
neck and the length of her arms.
 

Ferocity and
fear fueled David's whisper.
 
"Why
dally?
 
We love each other.
 
Let's go!"